Here is the house
by spellwing777
Summary: Bricks and plaster contain more than knickknacks.


_Lyrics from Depeche Mode's 'Here is the house'_

_Here is the house_

_Where it all happened_

He was surprised that the key still turned easily in the lock.

It felt as if this should be...harder. It shouldn't be this simple; the tumblers of the latch shouldn't roll so smoothly, the door should creak and protest, not swing open without a sound.

It shouldn't feel like no time had passed.

It shouldn't feel like he was coming home after just a short walk; like nothing had happened. Like thousands of New Yorkers weren't dead, like the days of adrenaline and fear were just a dream. Like there wasn't a red splatter on the snow of Antarctica.

There were still sugar wrappers in his trashcan.

The dust was the only indication of the passage of time; a light grey cast to everything, smearing on his fingers as he trailed them over the rings on the coffee table, the metal backs of the kitchen tables. Brass gleamed dully under the late afternoon sun as his fingers grazed the handle of the basement door.

_Those tender moments_

_Under this roof_

_Body and soul come together_

_As we come closer together_

Archie shuddered as it settled into its cradle, safe in the confines of the nest; safe in the steel and concrete of his home. Tonight had been close, too close. He'd been forced to engage the autopilot because his vision was swimming; but they were back, bleeding, but alive.

He could feel fingers picking at the edge of his cowl, leather pressing against his skull. Rorschach was trying to check his skull for soft spots were the crowbar had hit him, but he knew that he wouldn't be able to feel anything under the leather. He finally tore the damn thing off with shaking fingers, vision graying at the edges.

He started at the sharp intake of breath from his partner.

Then the fingers were back, slowly running over his hair, finding nothing but gritty sweat and some blood from the skin that had split under the hit. They quickly withdrew, and he heard leather creak as his partner tried to tug the cowl back on. He grabbed it, and after a pause where he stared at the shifting black and white on Rorschach's mask-trying not to let the undulating movement tip him over the edge-clumsily stuck out a hand.

"Hi." He gasped raggedly. "My name is Daniel. Daniel Drieberg."

It had been spontaneous; a thoughtless gesture that was weighed with meaning. His hand was outstretched, still gauntleted, still covered, but his face, name, _humanity _laid bare. Bare to a man whom he'd been working with for a few months, who still ate by sneaking bits of food under a scarf to hide his lower face.

It was a gesture of trust.

An attempt to get closer.

His arm hung there, waiting, wanting, until it started to grow heavy. His smile faltered, adrenaline fading, drying up and shriveling with waiting, and started to draw his hand away-

His hand was snatched, almost roughly, and the grasp gentled suddenly, into a warm grip of worn leather. Firmly shook.

"Good to meet you."

Daniel's smile faded more when he realized that the mask was firmly staying on, wasn't going anywhere, but his smile turned into a confused frown when his hand wasn't released. Seconds stretched into minuets.

"...Um."

The gloved hand jerked open, like a released trap, and his partner moved off, all business, as he tugged Daniel's cowl back on. Smoothed it. Adjusted it.

And after that, food was no longer snuck under a scarf. He ate with the lower half of his face exposed.

_As it happens_

_It happens here_

_In this house_

He lifted the kitchen phone, unsurprised that there was no dial tone. The phone had service had probably been out for weeks. He put it back onto the receiver, the dull click echoing in the silent kitchen

Daniel lifted his hand, staring at the gritty dust clinging to it. At one time, the stains would have been machine oil, blood, roofing tar; it would have been the dirt of work in the hemorrhaging arteries of New York. Now it was just a grey powder, the dust of neglect. His house was cold. His kitchen phone would never ring with the warm voice of his mentor, seeing if he was coming for a beer tonight.

_And I feel your warmth_

_And it feels like home_

_And there's someone_

_Calling on the telephone_

"Kid, you doing okay?" The voice on the receiver was tinny, but it still managed to convey warmth and concern. "He isn't badgering you about patrols, is he?"

He smiled. His arm was still healing, and it was 20 below outside. No way was he stepping out into that.

"I'm fine Hollis. And hell, even he has to admit this isn't a good night."

He paused. "And...what about you?"

_Let's stay home_

_Its cold outside_

_And I have so much_

_To confide to you._

"Staying warm. Barely." He muttered. "That boiler is temperamental beast; I had to pull up my old space heater from the basement."

"That's too bad..." He trailed off.

Nothing but static in the background.

"...Kid?" He said, softly. "Something bothering you?"

"I..." He swallowed.

_With or without words_

_I'll confide everything_

"...No."

Static again.

"You're terrible at lying you know." He murmured. "Your partner's good; he'd been working by himself before you got into this game, you know. He'll be okay out there."

Daniel swallowed. Hollis always knew; didn't need to say a word, sometimes, for him to understand. Sometimes he was sure that he knew more about his...concerns, for his partner than he was letting on. But he never said anything.

_Here is the house_

_Where it all happened_

He thumbed a depression in the side of the doorway of the guest bedroom. The sheets on the guest bed were immaculate, hospital corners turned neatly. Disused and grayed with more dust.

_Those tender moments_

_Under this roof._

_Body and soul come together_

_As we come closer together_

_As it happens_

_It happens here_

_In this house_

He swore angrily as his cast smacked into the doorframe, nearly taking a chunk out of the plaster, and the wood getting an ugly dent in it.

"Jesus." He hefted the smaller form along awkwardly, trying to use his one arm as best as he could. "Sorry."

"Nrg. Daniel-" Rorschach staggered. "-Would appreciate not being concuss...onna the door."

Daniel frowned at the unusual lack of eloquence. "I'd appreciate you not making any smart comments, or I might just drop you 'accidentally'."

They both staggered to the guest bed; Rorschach leaning heavily on his partner, tying not to put pressure on his sprained ankle. Ironically, the injury wasn't from fighting gang members or drug dealers; but from a patch of ice concealed under snow. The night had been slow; everyone-degenerates and good men alike-wisely staying indoors. And, at Daniel's insistence, one very frost-battered vigilante.

He was dumped carelessly on the bed, and Rorschach floundered weakly, trying to sit up. He managed. Barely.

"Let's see that ankle."

Daniel crouched and pulled up the pant leg, unsnapping a garter strap so he could roll down the sock. He sucked in a breath when he saw the pale-too pale-skin; tinged with blue. He slipped off the shoe, yanked the sock off, and his forehead crinkled in worry.

His toes were dark, blue-tinged. Borderline hypothermia. Guess the ankle wasn't the only reason he'd been staggering like a drunk; he was even slurring his words a little.

"I'm going to go get some ace bandage for this; but I want you to strip off some of those layers." He said, authoritative tone in his voice. "They're wet; and you're practically a meat popsicle. You need to warm up."

_So we stay at home_

_And I'm by your side_

When he came back, he made a little cry of dismay, sitting down next to his partner. Rorschach had taken off most of his wet clothes as he'd asked, including the gloves, which revealed deathly blue-white hands. He immediately grabbed them, completely ignoring the smaller man's jerk of surprise; and started to rub the chilled digits of his fingers, trying to work some warmth back into them.

"Buddy, you are just so goddamn stubborn." He muttered. "You should have just stayed home."

"...Apartment doesn't have heat." Rorschach said. "Boiler broken."

"I meant here." He sighed; so wrapped up in concern over the chilled digits that he missed the jerk of his partner's head.

"Home." He breathed, confused. "Here?"

"Well, yeah." Daniel snorted. "You spend more time here than wherever you live, I swear."

There was silence for a long time, comfortable silence, as Daniel worked over the crooked thumbs, the chewed-down nails, a pale pink flush of warmth coming back. He sighed again, opening his hands, letting go of the lukewarm flesh so he could grab the ace bandage and the heating blanket-

He jumped as the hands curled gently over his own, looked at his partner's shifting mask, who was still staring at their intertwined hands, hat blocking the view of his face

_And you know_

_What's going on inside_

He waited, patiently. Waited-hoped for-an explanation. For a few words that would solve this bizarre, almost nightly occurrence of why Rorschach would shake his hand, then hold it, sometimes for minuets at a time. It was awkward at first, but then he'd just...gotten used to it. Gotten comfortable with it. Kind of...liked it, in a bizarre way.

_Inside my heart_

_Inside this house_

"...Home." Rorschach mumbled. It was just a word, a single word, but...

A little epiphany niggled its way into his mind, as he looked at the blots moving sluggishly over his partner's face; slowed by cold.

His partner never really talked about his home. He didn't mean the apartment he lived in now-he'd mentioned the inconsistent water, the temperamental heat-which now he was seeing as excuses to stay here, to be here...

He never talked about _home. _

Daniel had talked about his home, his childhood home, but Rorschach never mentioned his. He didn't mention any personal details, so not mentioning what kind of home he grew up in should just be part of that, but it was taking on a new significance, why he never...said anything.

_And I just want to_

_Let it all out for you_

His partner's face lifted slowly, until he was staring right at him, head cocked to the side a little, and he could see the jaw muscles working, face under the mask twitching; the slight dent in the latex over the partially opened mouth. Attempting to put to words what Daniel had already guessed.

_He doesn't talk about home._

_And I feel your warmth_

_And it feels like home_

His fingers slowly curled tighter around the smaller ones, trying to force more than physical warmth into them.

_Because there is no home to talk about._

_And I feel your warmth_

_And it feels like_

_Home_

"Yeah, buddy." He said softly. "Home."

_Here is the house_

_Where it all happened_

There would be no sugar wrappers and bean cans crowding his kitchen counters. No grimy fingerprints on his glass bathroom cabinets. No rumpled sheets in the guest room; smelling of thick musk. No subway maps trapped onto his workbench with coffee cups and stray tools, vibrantly red with annotations. No cooling glass bottles of coke on his coffee table.

_Those tender moments_

_Under this roof_

...No long handshakes.

_Body and soul come together_

_As we come closer together_

It took a lot of boxes to empty out the brownstone. They were full of equipment from the nest, knickknacks, owl-patterned dishcloths. They were heavy with unspoken words, lengthy pauses, the intimacy of tense moments.

The front door closed soundlessly. There was no lingering creak.

_As it happens_

_It happens here_

_In this house._


End file.
